The_Last_Pen
# The_Last_Pen Meenakshi Amman Temple entrance, Madurai. Periyasamy. Age 60. Every morning at 6 AM, he would sit at the temple entrance. In front of him, a small cloth spread. On it—pens, pencils, erasers, compasses. A pavement shop. But no real business. Periyasamy had one rule. Whenever someone asked for a pen, he would first ask: “Son… is it for an exam?” “Yes, grandfather. I have a maths exam today. I forgot my pen.” Immediately, Periyasamy would pick a good pen and give it. “Here. This is a lucky pen. Go get 100 marks.” “How much, grandfather?” “Money later. First write your exam. Come back and tell me your marks. Then pay.” The children would laugh and run off. They never returned. Periyasamy never asked either. His wife, Thangam, would scold him: “Are you mad? One pen costs ten rupees. If you give them away like this, what will we eat? Who will pay the rent?” Periyasamy would take out an old diary. In it, he had written entries by date: “12.03.2010 – Ramesh – Maths exam – Pen – ...